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You think I have a choice in any of this? Just look at me. This outfit isn't for me, it's for him. It’s his little joke, his way of making sure I never forget who holds the power here. The knee high socks, the skimpy bra... and this fucking diaper. He knows exactly what he's doing. He puts me in this infantile, humiliating thing to remind me that my opinions, my qualifications, my basic human dignity mean nothing. He calls it "managing performance issues," but we both know it's about control. A promotion? Don't make me laugh. My career path is permanently blocked by his amusement. And what could he do if I tried to fight back? Oh, I've thought about it. I lie awake at night running through the scenarios. He wouldn't just fire me, that would be a mercy. No, he'd make an example out of me. He has the security footage from his office. Hours of me stumbling around in my diaper, having to use this degrading padding right here at my desk while I go to the bathroom inside it. He'd leak it. Not all at once, but in little clips to colleagues, to other companies. He'd destroy any chance I have of working in this industry again. He'd attach my name to this bimbo-in-diapers persona forever. So yeah, I put on the slutty clothes. I wear the fucking diaper. Because the alternative is being utterly ruined. It's better to be his pathetic, dressed-up doll than to be publicly broken and left with nothing